


Fat Stacks and Quick Naps

by variableIntroversion



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Cuddling, Fluff, M/M, a lazy day in the Strider household
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:41:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22037215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/variableIntroversion/pseuds/variableIntroversion
Summary: Remember to feed your local Bro Strider at least once a day. Especially after late nights at the club.
Relationships: Dave's Bro | Beta Dirk Strider/Dave Strider
Comments: 3
Kudos: 44





	Fat Stacks and Quick Naps

**Author's Note:**

> More Brodave fluff because I've had this sitting around for a month and the world always needs more Strider cuddles

You're woken, just briefly, by the quiet _click_ of the front door and a much more audible _thump_ shortly after. It's extremely late at night, or extremely early in the morning depending on who you ask, and you know more on instinct than anything else that the sounds are from Bro getting home. He had a gig tonight (or last night). A big one, if your sleep-hazed memory serves.

Poor guy's probably exhausted if he's making such a noisy entrance. Exhausted, hungry, and undoubtedly going to choose sleep over food at this hour. You make a foggy note to yourself to take care of that later, after you roll over and get a few more hours of sleep.

It's some time after noon when you wake up properly. When the sun is making a valiant effort to sneak past your blinds and make you regret the fact that you can't sleep with shades on. That's the first thing you put on, followed slowly by a pair of sweats. Shirts are irrelevant on a Sunday, as far as you're concerned, so you wander into the living room half dressed and sleep rumpled in no time.

As you suspected, Bro is out cold on the futon. He didn't even bother taking off his shoes or hat or gloves. Literally the only thing he _has_ taken off are his shades, tossed haphazardly on the coffee table. Spotting that is what nudges you out of your post-waking zombie state and gets you into work mode.

First things first is making sure the blinds don't fail him the way they failed you. That's a pretty quick and easy task, at least. Once you're sure the sun isn't going to claim another innocent slumbering victim, you migrate into the kitchen to start on food. Neither you or Bro really know how to cook, but it doesn't take a culinary genius to not fuck up pancakes. It's in a bag, for fuck's sake. You have to add two ingredients, stir, and cook. It's practically an idiot-proof meal. And a convenient one for your purposes.

Still, you don't get it done at record speeds. Something about the part where you have to move painstakingly slowly and carefully when shifting cookware around so you don't wind up waking up Bro too soon. And how pancakes need time to actually cook. Regardless, you have more than enough to feed the both of you in about forty minutes. Your stomach is clenching and rumbling with the want for food, but you ignore it for now. You can wait a little longer.

Once you're sure everything's set aside and nothing will burn, you drift over to the couch pancake free. Bro, predictably, is still deep asleep, flopped out on his stomach and using his own arm as a pillow. He barely twitches as you slowly, slowly ease your way on top of him, until you're straddling his hips. Your knees are taking most of your weight though, ensuring that you don't crush him awake, and soon you're settled into place.

The next step is wholly unnecessary, but you're happy to do it anyways. You settle your hands on Bro's shoulders, just letting them rest there for a few moments. When he fails to so much as twitch in response, you start to gently work them in, kneading at his back until you find the first piano wires. Knots are inevitable when you spend hours looking down at equipment and holding your arms up to work it. There are plenty for you to find, and you take your time rubbing and pressing at those tense spots until they smooth out.

Bro sighs in his sleep, and you know that it won't be long now before he's actually cognizant again. But it isn't immediate, and you're happy to take your time with the massage. Even when you feel his breathing speed up slightly and know he's finally awake, all he does is hum and somehow go even more limp than when he'd been asleep. You smile to yourself and keep at it. Albeit, not quietly.

"Yo, welcome back to the land of the living." You say, instead of any comment on how endearing it is that he'll turn to putty in your hands.

He doesn't answer you properly, of course. You get a grunt and a stretch of silence as a greeting, and you almost think he'll snub conversation entirely for a second. Right up until, "'M I smellin' pancakes?"

"Yeah, man. Got some fat stacks waiting for you once you can peel yourself off the couch." Not that you're making that easy for him, what with the sitting on him and the still massaging him and everything. He hums again and doesn't make any attempt at dethroning you.

Things get quiet again. Long enough that you almost think Bro's fallen asleep. You should probably let him, dude needs all the sleep he can get. But you're still hungry, and you know he's got to be starving at this point. It's for his own good that you slide off him and onto your feet, though you do pause to card your fingers through his hair in a brief show of hat-usurping affection before you head back into the kitchen.

"How many d'you want?" You call, maybe a little on the louder side just in case he did doze off. There's a brief pause before he answers you.

"Enough to make me regret it later."

That pulls a small huff of a laugh out of you, but you oblige him and load five pancakes onto a plate before sliding it into the microwave. You dish out yours while you wait, then switch out the plates to drown Bro's in butter and syrup while yours reheat. Once that matter is settled, you're gliding back to the futon with both hands full of food.

Bro has managed to go vertical by now, so you set his food in his lap before taking your own seat. Neither of you make any comment on the fact that your shoulders are pressed together. You're both quiet as you eat, comfortably alone together scrolling on your phones and stuffing yourselves with sugary starch disks.

By the time you're done, you're feeling heavy and well-fed. Bro's leaning back with his head resting against the top of the futon, looking like he might just go into a food coma. With how much he ate, you wouldn't be surprised. Not that you aren't tired, too. You stayed up pretty late last night, if not quite as late as him.

At this point in the day, the afternoon Houston heat is starting to overwhelm the air conditioner. It's filling the apartment with warmth that's just shy of oppressive, making everything feel heavy and slow and lazy. The kind of lethargy that makes you understand cats and sunbeams just a little bit better.

Bro folds first, oozing sideways as he mumbles about taking a nap. You'd tease him about sounding like an old man if it weren't for the fact that you're having the same idea. So instead of a taunt, you give him an agreeing hum. He makes no fuss when you lay down next to him. Even though on such a narrow couch, that means you have to press up against his side and lay halfway on top of him to fit. Maybe especially because of that.

His arm wraps around you and tucks you as close as you can get. You're using his chest as a pillow, listening to his heartbeat and breathing and nothing else. Later, you'll both wake up overheated and sticky with sweat, but that's fine. You could both use a shower anyways, and it's totally worth it right now. Getting to fall asleep with him like this will always make it worthwhile.


End file.
